Fight Like a Girl - Sheena Kamal Page 0,13
get the feeling I’m not the first immigrant kid he’s tried to beat over the head with a book on their “culture” and, knowing what little I do know of him, I’m probably not going to be the last. Everybody has dreams, even bizarre ones, like Mr. Abdi’s.
When I leave, I try not to look back at him or the book that ruined my life and put ideas in my head. Teaching me about the evil that comes from my homeland. I try not to think of Dad. I used to think he was evil on account of him and Ma but now I don’t really know what evil is. Anyway, the book is out of my hands now.
Sayonara, Advanced English.
Business Management, here I come.
But his reaction to my essay bothers me all the way to the gym because Mr. Abdi is one of the decent ones. He actually cares. Once, he’d noticed a bruise on my arm and notified Mrs. Nunez. She obviously didn’t care and was visibly relieved when I explained it happened during training and, yes, I’m a fighter and, yes, my mother knows all about it. But at least he noticed. More than anyone else.
I forget all about the conversation at sparring because the gym is packed and sweat is pouring off us. Nobody can think of anything but getting a good few rounds in. Kru is in a good mood today, so we’re working on spinning elbows and Superman punches—the flying ones. This is the flashy stuff that you don’t pull out in fights. You only do these if you get hired to do stunts on a movie set or something. Can’t spin my elbow for shit, but I get some nice height on my Superman.
Soon we’re dizzy and airborne.
It’s all going to our head. Jason, the guy I beat at the demo, is terrible at Supermans—
Supermen?
—but I think he’s having the best time out of us all. I’m even smiling, which I haven’t done since the night Dad died. I’m smiling so much I see other people doing it, too, and it doesn’t go away, this feeling, until I get home.
My gear is so disgusting that I throw it all in the washing machine as soon as I walk in the door. There, next to the washer, I look at the sliding back door. Right. A couple days after Dad died, Columbus told me it was broken. The door blocks he put there are still in place, though. I think they work just fine to keep anyone from getting in, but we should probably fix it.
“Ma?” I say, coming up the stairs. “We need a new latch for the back door.”
“What?” she calls from the kitchen. Her hair is piled high on her head and she’s zoning out at the kitchen table, looking like she’s not even in the same world.
“The back door. A couple days after Dad died Columbus told me it was broken but I forgot to tell you. Sorry. Columbus put in door blocks but we probably need a new lock.”
She blinks at me until what I’m saying registers, even though it’s a pretty basic thing. Broken. Back door. New lock. Not complicated.
But a whole heap of emotions flit across her face. Maybe it was the easy way I brought up Dad’s death. I should have found a different way to put it. “Did you see the door blocks Columbus put in, Ma?”
“No, Trisha. What a question. If I knew, I would have known the door was broken and asked you to help me fix it,” she says, yawning. “Go to the hardware store tomorrow after school, get a new lock and we’ll put it in.”
“I wonder how long it’s been like that, though. I haven’t been in the basement since the last time I washed my gear, which was the day before Dad died. And the lock definitely worked then.”
“Is that so?”
“So it must have broken sometime between just before he died and when Columbus saw it a couple days later.” “Alright, Nancy Drew, will you please stop with this? I just asked you to get a new lock, okay?”
I flinch. I mean, all I’m trying to do is make a point. “Okay. Can I have some money for the lock?”
She passes over her purse and doesn’t even seem to notice how much I’m taking. So I pocket a little extra, because I’m strapped. And I’m gonna pay it back eventually. It’s not like she doesn’t know where I live.
She